Little Things We Don't Care To See
by Georgiavg
Summary: Touches E/O  You can take a look and be blinded. You can look real close, yet you are blind to the little things. Sometimes it's easier not to see, to avert the gaze, look away. And one day you'll realize... 'hell, I've missed out on life'
1. Chapter 1

On a Friday night O'Malley's is crowded. It's dark, the music is too loud and the booths, the bar and the two pool tables are packed with Cops, some celebrating, some drowning their regrets, some dwelling on thoughts. The place smells of beer and Whiskey, and Olivia can't help but think that if she wasn't a SVU detective but something else, anything else really, she'd be someplace that mixes fruity, colorful drinks. But she is a cop and she does work Special Victims and a Zombie or Sex On The Beach does nothing for her, especially not after a day lost in court.

It's black and white there. Either they win and get justice for the victims or they don't. It's that simple. Win some, lose some.  
>But she'll never get used to the feeling of walking out of the courtroom knowing some piece of crap walks free right behind her. Walks free to strike again, go on the prowl. Destroy.<p>

'Circumstantial at best, my ass,' she thinks, tipping the beer bottle to her lips to take a gulp. It has long since run warm, the condensation has pooled in a puddle on the table top. Her Corona tastes rancid and flat.

She had come here to get drunk, to deal, to maybe forget. But she feels so sick, her stomach all twisted in knots, that she can't even stand to drink enough to get there.

This place, despite being dark, dingy and stuffy feels like a home sometimes. A safe place. O'Malley's would have quite a story to tell about Olivia Benson if its walls could talk. Truths have been admitted here, and even the unspoken things have been too crystal clear too often. Friends were made, bonds have formed. It smells of alcohol and desperation, yet it's oddly comforting. They are all the same here, brothers and sisters in blue, different people with the same heart, the same motivation. They share their victories, mourn their losses.

It was thirteen years ago when Munch and Elliot helped Olivia walk out of here in a drunken stupor for the very first time, it was at the pool table where she started to flirt with Cassidy one night, the booth in the far corner to Olivia's right that they sat in when he ran a hand between her legs, asking her to come home with him. It was the place she came to to dowse the regret over sleeping with a coworker when she should have known better.

So yes, here is where the rest of the world is shut out, if only for a few hours, for fragments of a day, a week, a life. O'Malley's is part and parcel of their routine. Of Olivia's routine.

Olivia and Elliot have frequented O'Malley's more times than she can count, and even when no words were spoken the silence spoke volumes about their moods, their day. About them. They have always been better with the things they didn't say. Sometimes Olivia wonders how much she really knows about her ex-partner, when they never talked with words, when the things that really mattered have always been glossed over, concealed. She wonders why, despite hiding their truths, they seemed to always know.

She always knew how to read him, what kind of mood he was in, whether he was happy or depressed, when a case was too much. She knew the warning signs his body language gave away, knew about his frustration with her by the way he glanced at her. It seems big, because Olivia's never had that kind of connection with anyone else, yet, taking a look at the overall picture, it's incredibly small, incredibly little she knows about Elliot Stabler.

She knows how he takes his coffee, that a donut puts him in a better mood and chases away the clouds in his head, if only for as long as he scarfs the treat down. She knew when he's fought with his wife by the way he took a little too long to finish his paper work to stave off going home, yet she has no idea what his favorite movie is. She knows he's knocked up his wife in the back of his father's truck during their first time but has no idea whether he's still in love with Kathy or simply sticks around to have some sense of belonging, if he'd rather be miserable but at least not alone, if his vows keep him tied or if he has restored the faith in his marriage awhile ago. Olivia knows Elliot's marriage has been dysfunctional for the better course of the last decade but she doesn't know the details because he hardly ever shares. They have learned not to get too personal because it tends to make them go at each others' throats, and so it's easier to deny instead of laying it bare. They withhold and deny and while it keeps them guessing, keeps them running in circles, it works. Olivia knows a lot and at the same time she doesn't know anything. Because how much does she know, really know, when it all remains locked up inside.

She works with Fin now. Mostly. Fin's different. While he's broken, he does this job so he must be broken Olivia thinks, he's still got the ability to look at the bright side. He isn't as fickle, doesn't blow as hot and cold as Elliot. But sometimes Olivia wishes he was and did, just to be reminded.

She misses him. They still talk, still meet up. He's got better hours and he seems happier but the heaviness remains, has become part of him. Elliot isn't as angry as before but at times he's still brooding because leaving the unit hasn't freed him from SVU, hasn't chased away the demons. The people he has seen. The things he has done. It's within him. He's still fierce, still a force, a hurricane, but he no longer hits, has stopped destroying. He's calmer these days, all things considered.

She wonders where he sleeps these days when shit hits the fan at home, wonders because asking him would be a question too loaded and they don't do loaded. She wants to know which bunk in the crib is his, if the springs squeak as loudly as those at the 1-6, if the mattress is saggy like the one he used to sleep on countless times in between cases or after fights with his wife. She imagines the covers must smell like him, of soap and that special something that is just Elliot.

And suddenly a thought hits her, rams into her, breaks skin and ribs, goes straight for her heart.

_I wish Elliot was here._

He would sit with her in silence for the majority of the night, tipping back a couple of beers, maybe something stronger. To take the edge off. Eventually they would talk about the case, about the ruling. He'd be angry and brooding and his hard muscles would tense with his rage. His eyes would be hard and unforgiving, steel blue and cold and he'd do anything not to look at Olivia because in such situations he never wanted her to think that his anger is directed at her.

He'd understand. Know exactly what she feels, would know about her need for silent comfort and her want for redemption. Olivia knows it's the system that has failed, not them, not her. But somehow the point where she blames herself comes anyway, mocks and haunts her, slaps her right across the face.

_Not good enough._

Sometimes it seems no matter how hard she works, it bites her in the ass one way or another.

It's one of the moments she understands why he left, transferred out. And God, Olivia wishes she could do the same but even after thirteen years there's something that holds her back.

For a moment Olivia is so lost in thought, trying to figure out what keeps her in the unit, she doesn't notice the man standing next to her, almost hovering. But then there's the rumble of his deep voice and she startles, almost jumps in her booth.

"Benson-," he starts, but remains silent as her eyes rake over his body, all the way from his hip up to his head, her gaze finding his eyes. He stands 6-foot-5 tall, is cleanly shaven just as he had been in the morning, looking down at the detective with his handsome face.

What the hell is he doing here? In a cop bar? Talking to her? The guy's got some nerve.

"Langan," she snarls, and it sounds like she refers to something utterly disgusting. The name does leave a searing taste in her mouth. She swallows it, saliva clicking in her throat although she'd rather spit it out. Better yet, spit right in his face.

He walks around the table, slides into the booth opposite hers, looking at her.

"Don't even think about it," she warns. She's not gonna let him sit here. Who does he think he is even trying? As if she'd sit with the enemy. For all intends and purposes that is what Trevor Langan is. She tries to prune the streets of the city's scum, he comes to their defense. Olivia wants them rotting behind bars, Langan helps set them free. Olivia cares about justice, Trevor about money, at least she thinks that's his motivation. Unless he's completely heartless, unaffected by what Olivia sees and deals with every day, what he has to deal with as well. But he just stumbles across those crimes, his role in the game is much more passive. It's a peculiar dance between them whenever they meet at the station. He throws his lawyer talk around, she attacks. Bites. Most of the time she's indifferent to Trevor. Today, however, what she feels runs much deeper, roots within her.

"We gotta talk," he states. His eyes are a mixture of greens and blues, and his usually hard stare is softer in the darkness of the bar.

They have nothing to talk about. Olivia doesn't have anything to say to him. When they do talk it always concerns work, and if it wasn't for that she wouldn't even know the guy. The only time they have ever met outside of work was when Olivia was accused of murder and Langan came to her defense. She hadn't been particularly impressed to see him but she had been relieved. Olivia had never thought she'd feel happy to see Trevor Langan but she knew that he was good at what he did, was painfully aware of him being her best shot. It didn't make her like him and in the back of her mind there had been doubts even then, chained to a metal rod in a hallway of Central Booking. After having been arrested by Tucker of all people and having her photograph taken. Doubts that Langan was the right person to defend her, speak for her. Doubts nagging. Pushing. Trevor simply hit a little close to home. But it was not like she had a choice, nor was she willing to fire him, find someone else to represent her. Especially not when she found out his retainer had already been paid. Their history had nothing to do with it. It had been business.

Langan had assumed she was guilty and probably it shouldn't have surprised Olivia. The man defended criminals all the time. Presuming the worst had probably become such a big part of him that their innocence was easier to prove than convince himself of. Maybe it's the last thing Olivia should blame him for. She imagines most people didn't believe in her side of the story. She could tell by the way they looked at her as she entered the precinct, whispering, acting like she was one of those animals she had tried to stop for years. Olivia had seen it in Tucker's eyes as he questioned her, coming up with some crap story of PTSD, about how she'd lost it.

Olivia had felt as if trapped in a horror movie, like someone must have been playing a sick joke on her. Only nobody had been laughing. For a moment, despite knowing her hands were clean, despite knowing for fact she didn't murder anybody, Olivia had started to question her own sanity. It had been impossible. And Tucker hadn't believed a word of what Olivia said, hadn't doubted her guilt. She had been the prime suspect in a murder investigation and despite the absolute impossibility they have had more than enough evidence for a conviction. Murder in the second degree. Charges Olivia could barely face, much less understand.

Even then she had felt safe, thinking that IAB had nothing on her because she had not been anywhere near the victim, hadn't done a thing to him. The thought of going back to prison had terrified Olivia enough to talk to Tucker without a lawyer present, despite Cragen's and Munch's warning. But she had been ready to do anything that would keep her in the safety of the station and far away from a place that would bring the demons back.

Olivia had been confused as Tucker then took her to Central Booking, disclosing they had matched her DNA to the one found on the knife Clyde was murdered with. And that's when Langan showed up, much to her surprise. If Olivia is being honest, it had only been then she had realized how hopeless the situation was, how her friends knew she needed a shark of a lawyer to stand a chance in court.

The evidence had been so stifling, there were moments she hadn't even known what to believe anymore, ran out of ways to explain. Her DNA had been found on the murder weapon. How it got there Olivia had no idea. Her Mustang had been driven, damaged in a hit and run, and everything pointed to her, no matter how often she declared her innocence.

For reasons Olivia can't explain she thinks Langan should have known she couldn't have done it. Even knowing nothing about her personal life, the times they met at the 1-6, in court, he should have known that she wasn't capable of murder. That she cared too much about her job to do something that could take it away from her. She was a decorated Detective with the NYPD, for heaven's sake! She was dedicated. She was her job.

It had made her wonder if Langan ever paid any attention to her at all.

He had thought she was guilty, she had seen it in his eyes, in the way he took just a little too long to cut her question whether he believed she had done it short saying: "Of course not." She had told him how this was different, that she was telling the truth, how it wasn't his usual smoke and mirrors. He had cut her off with the excuse that they didn't have much time, and while she never really got over the encounters at work, she was unable to forgive Langan for his disinterest in the truth. Maybe he hadn't wanted to know. Maybe he doesn't give a damn if a client is guilty or not. But all Olivia had wanted was someone to see her for what she was, someone who could actually do something about it. Olivia doesn't fool herself, she knows that if tables hadn't turned all of a sudden, if it hadn't been for Elliot's dedication in proving his partner's innocence, Trevor wouldn't have gotten her off. She'd be in prison right this minute, sentenced for a crime she hasn't committed.

Olivia had needed him to believe her, as if that would have meant it gave him the incentive to work harder, prove she had nothing to do with Clyde's murder, no matter the outcome.

If it hadn't be for Elliot, Olivia doubts anyone would have cared about the truth at all. It was him who fought for her as if his own freedom depended on it, it was him who bailed her out of prison, mortgaging his house without even telling his wife, simply dismissing the possibility that Olivia could screw up and get him in trouble. The way he had seen it there had been nothing for him to worry about. And although she had told Elliot that there are worse fates, worse places to be, she had been relieved and grateful. She wouldn't have made it in there for much longer with nothing but tormenting thoughts in a darkness that the lamps couldn't illuminate enough, with the knowledge that before long she'd be shipped off to Rikers Island until trial would start. The desperation had seeped from the walls into her body, made Olivia feel cold and alone. She had never been that scared for her future, for herself.

The place had made her feel almost claustrophobic, the possibility of not getting out, not ever, made it hard to breathe. For Olivia to be imprisoned, as a detective, after all she had done in her career, was the ultimate degradation. Locked in a cell like a criminal, accused and unable to prove her innocence. Olivia had felt lost, had felt all control she used to have over her life slip through her very fingers. She had been facing a life sentence for murder and there hadn't been a damned thing she could do about it. She was going to be locked up with the sort of people she despised, had always separated herself from. Olivia was nothing like them, would never be anything like them.

Up until this day Olivia has had a feeling that Langan had felt sorry for the mess she had gotten into. He had been fairly nice, when bail was set at 250.000 Dollars at her arraignment – Olivia's worst nightmare – he had looked truly worried and there had been no question: Olivia Benson had been in deep shit. He whispered in her ear that he'd get her out, and while she believes Elliot was more than willing to mortgage his house, she's got the suspicion that Langan had asked her colleagues, maybe specifically Elliot if there was something he could do. Olivia hadn't had two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In fact she didn't even know anyone with that kind of money. And still, despite everything, despite the feeling that Trevor Langan had actually felt sorry for her about two years ago, she doesn't have any sympathy for him, isn't willing to make excuses for a man so utterly different from herself.

"Gotta talk? We gotta do shit."While she doesn't know anything about Trevor Langan, she hates his guts, hates him for what he does. When they meet he makes her life and job a little harder. She doesn't owe him anything. Maybe it would be different if he had seen her for what she is, if he would have believed her. In turn that would mean he'd have to assume his every client is free of guilt, was set up, toyed with. And that's where the vicious cycle begins, where lies bleed into truths and taint them. Trevor Langan couldn't and can't ever do the right thing in her eyes, even if he tried. They stand on different sides, would never meet in the middle, never come to a mutual understanding. His victory is her downfall, hers, despite the defeat, his win; a little more money in his pocket.

Langan is silent. He doesn't argue, seems to accept this. In more ways than one he understands.

Then, "What are you doing here, anyway?" She doesn't need others to see her mingle with Satan in person. But she is curious. Very.

"Came to see you," is his short reply. Trevor shifts and it is now that Olivia realizes how uncomfortable he looks. He glances around the place and there are a couple of eyes on them. Olivia sighs.

_Oh boy._

"Fine, so you've seen me." Wait. "How did you know I was here?"

Langan's eyes are on her again, his fingers bounce slightly on the table top.

"Your Captain said I'm likely to find you here."

He talked to Cragen? What would he do that for? She is confused and damn her if he doesn't pick up on it. "You talked to Cragen?"

"I've been looking for you but you've already left. Listen-." He takes a deep breath and his words anger her so much, Olivia fears she's going to lose her shit. His presence is never welcome, but tonight it borders on unbearable.

She wonders how he even got the idea to set foot into a cop bar when criminal defence lawyers are the last thing wanted in here. There should be a sign keeping guys like Langan from entering, intruding, tainting this place.

"No, you listen, Langan. I don't know what the fuck you're doing here and I honestly don't care." Probably he wants to rub his triumph in her face. "I don't condone what you do. I don't understand it, either. And I don't ever want to. Just get the hell away from me, will ya?" She's being a bitch but she isn't all that sure if she cares right this second. Olivia is pissed, pissed that they lost in court, pissed that Rostock walked and it is so, so easy to take it out on Langan because he's more or less responsible for her current state of misery. Olivia reaches for her beer, gulps the last of it down and slams the bottle back on the table, about ready to leave.

"The ruling today was a mistake," he says. She stops mid-motion, staring at him wide eyed and the question lingers there on her stony face.

"What?"

"Listen, I don't have much time to explain. Just come with me."

"The hell?" She exclaims, maybe a little too loud because she makes some heads turn. Well, at least now nobody will think they're being overly friendly with each other. Just as well.

"Will you be the fuck quiet?" He hisses through his teeth in a stage whisper.

"What kind of game are you playing, Langan?" Olivia hisses back, not quite as loud as before but still loud enough to attract attention from the people around them.

Langan stares her down and his eyes are cold, challenging. Watching. Like a snake stalking its prey, ready to strike. Then he gets up, just a little, knees bent. His palms are flat against the table top as half of his torso is hovering above it and even then he's about the same height as her.

"He's guilty." He's speaking so quietly, through his teeth and his lips are barely moving. Olivia is wondering if he said anything at all. But she's heard him, heard something that was only meant for her ears and she can't. Fucking. Believe. Him!

"Oh, really?" She asks sarcastically. Her hands are shaking with anger. "Of course he's fucking guilty, Langan, what the hell did you think?"

"I thought what I'm supposed and paid to think," he rasps, getting just a little closer with his face.

"Raping and murdering little girls shouldn't be a crime?" She challenges, her stare boring into him. Her voice has dropped considerably.

"Innocent until proven guilty," he responds and she laughs in his face with a small roll of her eyes.

"You're scum, Langan. Quite honestly, you're not better than they are." He knew Rostock was guilty as sin, admits it as well, and now the asshole comes to rub it in her face. "I don't know how you can live with yourself."

"Do you want what I've got or don't you?" He asks her eventually, ignoring the insult.

"What you've got?" She repeats. What could he probably have?

He swallows, moves a little closer to her and now there's barely any space left separating their faces. Olivia doesn't shy away. She's not scared or intimidated and by the expression on his face she has no reason to be. Trevor can smell the alcohol on her lips, almost feels her breath tickling his face as she's breathing heavily through her nose.

"That guy-," he breathes. "- needs to be taken off the streets."

Olivia raises a single eyebrow. Is he kidding her? That had been what she's worked her ass off for, that's what she and Casey had tried to make sure of in court. And that piece of crap got away with Betsy Turner's rape and murder courtesy Trevor Langan.

"You made goddamn sure he walked, Langan." The words are a bite.

"The evidence was shaky, Olivia," he whispers, his eyes darting to the table next to theirs but most of the other patrons of the bar are engrossed in their own conversations. Or their drinks for that matter.

"The evidence was there and it was enough! It should have been enough! He raped, maimed and killed that little girl, a six year old girl, goddammit. And you helped him get away with it."

"I did my job," he says calmly. "If I hadn't been his defence attorney it would've been someone else. The result would be the same. The system has flaws and I worked with what I had."

"How do you sleep at night, Langan?"

"Sometimes I don't." Olivia wants to laugh, but there is something about his eyes, about his face that make it seem inappropriate. He's a lawyer. He defends the scum of New York City, monsters, so she doesn't trust his words. And yet there is something. That flicker. That... sadness?

He doesn't do his job to set people like Rostock free, and not all of his clients have committed horrible crimes. A fair share of his clientele wasn't guilty, of that Langan is convinced. Olivia Benson is living proof, after all, and he hadn't been overly convinced of her innocence.

He's done his part to make the world a better place, to achieve justice when justice was due. He isn't blind to the fact that he helped criminals as well, though. It is part of his profession, it happens. Sometimes they walk, and it doesn't make Trevor feel easy. He went to law school and ended up in one of New York City's best chanceries, made it partner four years ago. While he doesn't pride himself on every case he fought and won, he has no shame on where he stands now. He's worked hard to get where he is today and he isn't going to answer to anyone who questions his life decisions just because they work on the other side of the system. Trevor is the first to admit that he works for scum sometimes, that he represents perpetrators, but it's not his job to question them, it's his job to do what he can to prove their innocence even if their hands are dirty, have touched, raped, killed. Trevor doesn't have sympathy for them and while he hates to lose in court there's the occasional case that makes him take a breath of relief when he does, when his defense lacks credibility. There are people that belong behind bars, who deserve to be locked up for life and when he stumbles across that kind of client it makes him sleep a little better when he fails to keep them out of jail. He likes the rush that comes with being a defense lawyer, hates what it does to him. He gives away pieces of his soul, too. He isn't cold, cruel and blind. He isn't his job. And although there is no reason for him to justify what he does or why he does it there's always the bitter pill of guilt to swallow. But this one, the one that was forced down his  
>throat today, is poisonous.<p>

"What do you want from me?" It comes out with a quiet sigh. She is tired and wants to be left alone, and obviously he's not going to go anywhere just because she engages in wishful thinking. "One minute," she tells him.

He gives a short nod, sitting back down because Olivia doesn't seem inclined to follow him outside where they could talk privately.

"I think there have been other victims," he starts, quietly.

Olivia closes her eyes, shaking her head. "You think? What are you talking about Langan?" The man irritates her to no end.

"This stays between us," he whispers, although he is not a one-hundred percent sure he can trust her enough. With what he's going to tell her she could have his ass, end his career as a lawyer.

"Your minute's almost up," she reminds him, trying to cut this short.

"After court today, Rostock said something," Trevor tells her, his eyes focused strictly on the detective's. "He thanked me-"

Olivia interrupts, snorting with disapproval. "Yeah, I woulda thanked you, too, if I got off with that."

Langan didn't let the comment deter him and kept talking. "He said he knew the Jury would understand that they wanted it. All of them."

All of a sudden Langan's got Olivia's full attention.

"He said that?" She asks in disbelief.

"With a smile," Trevor agrees. "So, there's gotta be others, Olivia."

She furrows her brow, because she doesn't understand this. Langan gives her privileged information on one of his clients. And not only that. There's an urgency in his voice, she hadn't thought a man like Trevor Langan could convey. The guy actually looks disturbed.

"Why are you telling me this, Langan?" The one million dollar question.

"Because you're the only person I know who's going to go lengths to get justice for those girls."

"Since when do you care about justice?" Olivia doesn't expect him to answer the question, nor does his answer interest her. Sure, he came to her defense once because everyone at the 1-6 chipped in when she was accused of murder. She herself could have never afforded hiring him. Innocent people get locked up more often than one would think, they're suspected of crimes for lack of an alibi and sometimes they've simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The systems isn't perfect, it has got more holes than Swiss cheese. Still that's not what she wants to hear him say to justify what he does.

"I'm trying to serve justice, Olivia. Just like you do and just like any other lawyer does."

"What makes you think I'm not gonna rat you out and get you disbarred?" The thought makes her feel a little giddy inside. _Getting rid of at least one of them, now that's a thought._

"You may hate me, Benson. But you hate people like Rostock a lot more."

"I don't know why you tell me this, because even if there have been others, we've got nothing on him, Langan. We didn't get him for what he did to Betsy and for all we know there have been no others. There's no goddamn evidence, so what do you think I can do?"

"Find evidence," he says as if it's nothing, as if it's not a big deal, either. He might as well ask her to make it rain.

"On what grounds?" Exasperatedly she pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Let's presume Betsy wasn't his first victim – how do I know that? How do I explain that, Langan. Huh? Because sometimes I do have hunches but that one's a little out there, don't you think?"

"See if you can find the same M.O."

"Don't insult me, Langan. What do you think we did in order to catch this guy?"

"Look elsewhere. Look in fucking Idaho if you have to," he tells her. "But you gotta do something because I don't think he's gonna stop, Olivia."

"I can't believe this," she sighs. He must be kidding her. It's his fault that Rostock is back out there. He may have a point saying if it wouldn't have been him he'd have gone free anyway, but it was him. And it will be him again and again.

"I can't start some kind of investigation, Langan. I've got nothing on him but goddamn privileged bits of a conversation which means I can't even share it. I have no reason to look into Rostock again or still!"

"So, you're not gonna do anything?"

"It's out of my hands."

"No, it's not. You could look into it, you could try to get your hands on something."

"And risk my job? I've got no more favors to call in. I wouldn't even know where to start. You said it yourself. The evidence was shaky. Even with a dead kid on our hands he couldn't be stopped."

"I'm risking mine. I'm willing to lose mine if that's what it takes. Listen, I'm not asking you to start some huge secret operation. All I want is for you to see if you can match the M.O. As I said – and if you've got to look in Idaho." He emphasizes the last word, giving her a stern look as he withdraws, slides out of the booth. He's got her full attention, Trevor can see it in her face, in the way her brow furrows and she licks her lips once.

"What's in Idaho?" She asks intrigued by the things he doesn't say. Olivia's heart skips a beat, her curiosity kicking in just like Trevor had hoped. She's in cop mode now, wanting information, willing to solve a puzzle. Put the pieces together.

"Potatoes," he says, pointedly, standing at the side of the table. "Goodnight, Olivia."

"Wait, you can't just leave now. Why Idaho, Langan? What are you saying?"

"Too much," he growls, combing a hand through his thick hair, starting to move, pull away.

Olivia quickly gets up as Langan stalks past her. "Langan!" She demands, wanting him to stop walking and start talking. She fumbles for her handbag, for her purse and it takes her too damned long. She keeps looking after him, watching him disappear with his long strides, while she slams a few dollars on the table. "Goddamn son-of-a-bitch," she hisses quietly, rushing after him. He's out the door already and as she reaches the street the cold night air envelops her with a vengeance. She sees him in the dark, his tall frame illuminated by the street lights. "Langan, wait!" She yells, breaking into a run to catch up with him.

Olivia feels like a fool. Five minutes ago she desperately wanted to get rid of him, now she was running after him like a faithful dog, wanting more information. When Olivia reaches him, panting slightly, she grabs his wrist, making him turn around and face her. "What do you know, Langan?" She asks. Her tone is no longer demanding, this time she sounds like she is pleading with him, like she admits defeat, lets him win.

"I don't know anything." Trevor's posture is rigid, his voice calm.

"Then what is it about Idaho, Langan? You can't do this. You can't come to me, asking me to look into Betsy's case again and not give me a reason."

"I gave you reason," he reminds her.

"Just tell me."

"I can't. Because I do not know anything. I'm taking a guess, Benson. A big one and I'm not sure it's gonna get you anywhere but-"

"What else did he say? He said something about Idaho, right?" She's not eating the crap he's feeding her, that he doesn't know anything and is only guessing. He must know something and he better tell her.

"He didn't. If you can do something, it would be great if you did. If not, thank you for you time, I appreciate it." In all the years she has known Langan, Olivia has never seen him like this, especially not asking her to do something. Kindly on top of that. For the first time she gets the impression that he might actually care about what she does, despite making her believe in the contrary because of his job.

"Idaho?" She asks, giving up the fight for more information, realizing she's unlikely going to get more from him.

"Idaho," he agrees, his voice a deep rumble. He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his expensive, anthracite-colored suit, watching the detective nod. Trevor has a feeling it's her way of telling him she'll see what she can do, then again he's not at all sure. He likes the woman. Kind of. She's fierce, dedicated. And although they have never gotten along; of course that was to be expected with them working for different sides of the law, he has never felt the utter dislike she seems to hold for him.

"Trevor-," Olivia starts. Her voice has softened, the bite is gone, the accusation put on hold for a minute. It occurs to Olivia that she has never used his first name. It's always been Langan, partially to show her disrespect, partially to impersonalize every word exchanged. He picks up on the use of his first name immediately, surprise washing in his eyes. He visibly relaxes a little, his stiffness fading. "Why are you doing this?"

For a minute Trevor isn't sure how to answer. He cares. He likes children, he feels sick just imagining what happened to Betsy Turner and likely to other girls before her. Ralph Rostock was something else, an animal. Trevor has defended a whole lot of guilty people, has gotten some of them off, too, but nobody has ever looked him in the eye and admitted to have done it. Nobody has ever smiled that disgusting smile, thanking him for his services and deliberately let slip that there have been other victims. Nobody has ever managed to make Trevor's blood run cold, freeze. He has stomached a lot of things, but this was something he knew he couldn't live with. They aren't likely to pin another murder on Rostock, but he wants to believe that by telling Olivia something he shouldn't he does his part.

Maybe he wants absolution after all the times he tried to keep people like Rostock out of jail, whether he succeeded or not. On some level this one's to prove something to himself, prove he's human despite the inhumanity his job requires him to portray.

He thinks long and hard, and still he doesn't have an answer to give. "Just doesn't seem right not to."

Olivia looks up at him, his face is overshadowed by the darkness. She can't see the expression on his face, only hears his voice as he seems to fumble for an answer that doesn't seem satisfying even to him. His eyes are on her and it's surprisingly quiet outside for New York City at night. A few cars are passing by but that's about the only distraction of silence.

"Will you let me know if you have something?" Trevor's words push through the icy November air.

Olivia nods. Somehow words refuse to roll off her tongue as she's trying to understand his motivation.

"Thank you," his deep voice rumbles. "Good night, Olivia." He pivots, and she sees his face slightly illuminated by a light post for a second. Then, with strides that seem longer than she's ever seen, Trevor walks away, both hands deep in the pockets of his suit coat.

"Good night," she mutters, almost in a whisper, as he's already too far down the street to hear her. She looks after him until he eventually disappears in the night, until she is sure she doesn't even see his tall frame dance in the distance, pop up and vanish in rhythm of the street lights appearing.


	2. Chapter 2

Groaning, Olivia rolls onto her side, the sheet rustling beneath her body. The digital alarm clock throws long, red lines, numbers, across the ceiling in the otherwise pitch dark room. She can't sleep. She's been trying for the last three hours but the meeting with Langan plays on Olivia's mind, the words exchanged echoing over and over. The more Olivia tries not to think of the defense attorney's request, the more she does.

_Typical._

Olivia thinks she's never liked psychology much.

Perhaps it's not even Langan's request that keeps Olivia awake but the searching for a motive. The why. Why would someone like Langan come to her with information on one of his clients that could so easily end his career if not handled strictly confidential? Telling Olivia that not coming to her with what he knew didn't seem right is not enough, doesn't explain the complexity of his decision. And quite honestly, it bugs Olivia that Langan's little stunt doesn't mix well with her poor opinion of the man. Where should all the disrespect that has built over the years go now? It hasn't been replaced, in fact Olivia would still like to drive his head through the next wall available, but as much as Olivia wants to deny a shift in her view of the defense attorney things have changed. She dislikes him for other reasons tonight, reasons that should easily make her like him instead of despise him. But Olivia is nothing if not stubborn, determined not to let anything get in the way of all feelings negative towards Trevor Langan. At the end of the day – she reminds herself of this – he's still a defense attorney, still representing, _helping. _Langan is an accomplice to those that are Olivia's worst nightmare, people with souls so black and rotten that it isn't in any way tangible. But it is. It is, and the sad part – the unbearable part – it is too tangible for her. After all these years on the job, in SVU, she still doesn't understand. But it sure as hell is fucking tangible day in and day out because it surrounds her. It's everywhere. Tragically, maybe it has even seeped into her. Sometimes no matter where she turns, whom she looks at, she doesn't see any good there. She wants to believe in black and white, aches for everything to be defined. If she has learned one thing however, it's that nothing's ever cut-and-dried. There are too many shades of gray. Years ago Olivia thought she could divide her life in two. Her job and her private life. But things happened and cases were taken home, blood was shed. Too many crime-scenes are there in her head, part of her. Victims have stayed with Olivia until this day, perps she locked up are still under her skin. Whenever she gets home she can peel off her clothes, she can wash off the day, towel off and pretend she's cleansed. The truth is that she can never be cleansed from all she's seen. There's the constant reminder, that little voice in her head that even at the end of the day, even in the privacy of her own home wanting to be anything but – she's still a cop. Still her job.

And if she is her job, then Trevor Langan has to be his.

Rubbing her hand over her face, Olivia glances at the clock. 5:15 AM. She might as well get up now and toss down a few pots of coffee. Decision made. She throws the covers back, pushes herself up and stretches her long legs out of bed. Switching the light of her bedside lamp on, Olivia squeezes her eyes shut against the offensive glare, blinking rapidly as she gets used to the illumination of her bedroom. Her eyes burn with the lack of sleep, watering slightly. Way to start the day.

Olivia shuffles to the bathroom, undressing and dispensing her clothes on the way. Usually she is tidy but this early in the morning she can't be bothered. Merely her shorts are tossed in the hamper. She takes a quick, tepid shower in hope that it's enough to revive her but to no avail. Wrapped in a towel Olivia starts the coffee machine. Her stomach growls and it occurs to her that she hasn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours. She doesn't function properly, deciding that making some toast is too much of an overcharging task. She'll grab something on the way to the precinct.

Rollins crosses the 1-6, case file in hand, looking up as the double doors of the squad room swing out with a protesting squeak, revealing no less a figure than her co-worker Olivia Benson.

"Morning Olivia," she greets the brunette. And here she thought she would be the first detective to arrive this early.

"Morning. What are you doing in so early?" Olivia shrugs out of her coat, throwing it over her chair.

"The usual," Rollins says with a heavy breath, yet she smiles. "Could ask you the same, though." Amanda drops the file on her desk, her southern accent thick as she looks at Olivia.

"Crappy night." No need for further explanations, they all go through the motions and by now Rollins has learned how hard and personal her fellow detective takes a lost case.

"Aren't they all," Rollins drawls and it's more of a statement, not a question. Olivia makes a small sound in response, leaning against her desk, facing the other woman.

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia crosses her arms.

"Go ahead."

"Rostock-," Olivia starts, and somehow Amanda had a feeling it would be about the case. "You said he must have done this before yet we didn't find anything."

"You're questioning my assessment," Rollins says with a nod. It was in fact curious that they came up empty investigating the case. Two prior offenses, both inadmissible because they're in Rostock's juvenile record. Offenses completely different from the case, although sexually related.

"No," Olivia says quickly. "Actually, I'm trusting your assessment." Rollins remains quiet for a few seconds, obviously in thought. Trusting her assessment? That is new. She remembers all too well how easily Benson used to shoot her 'assessments' down when she first started working for this unit, the way Olivia acted like she knew it all, had sharp instincts, couldn't learn from Rollins and that she is simply wrong. Just because.

"You know, maybe I was wrong. He's got psychopathic tendencies. Betsy might have been his first." Because there is nothing for them to prove the opposite. Not a single thing. His vest is white and clean. Bleached. Perfectly fucking bleached without a single stain.

"Or maybe we haven't looked thoroughly enough," Olivia disagrees.

"Don't you think we would've found something if there was something to find, Liv?" Under different circumstances Olivia would have agreed. But knowing they haven't looked out of state because they didn't have reason to turns the tables. Something is off about this case. Something is not right, there is something they're missing, they've missed, and it took Trevor Langan to come to her and spill what should have remained a secret for Olivia to see it. Of all the goddamn people.

"How sure are you?"

"At this point? Fifty-fifty, maybe."

"Fifty-fifty," Olivia repeats, closing her eyes. "And before?"

"Woulda bet my ass we'd find something." The words carry a sigh. Olivia looks at Amanda, nodding slowly.

"So did I," Olivia says. "You weren't off. You're never off." Olivia talks to herself, not to Rollins. She doesn't want to convince anyone because she knows all that matters. Her gut tells her Betsy hasn't been Rostock's first victim and it has everything and nothing to do with what Trevor told her. "What if he changed his M.O.?" She questions.

"Unlikely."

"If prior vics haven't been found-," Olivia muses.

"He wanted her to be found, Olivia. It's significant. He thrives on leaving them in a place where they'll be found quickly. If he has ever changed his M.O., I don't think that's it."

"What could it be?"

"Violence might have escalated. He enjoys hurting them but he damn near butchered Betsy."

"I think I'm going to go over this again," Olivia says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Something's gotta pop up somewhere."

"You really think we've missed something?" Amanda asks. She herself doesn't know what to believe. There's her instincts telling her there's reason to keep on digging, her rationality that suggests it's done, over. They can't always win, they can't solve every case. Perhaps if all it took was their sheer willpower but sadly that's not how it works. Determination is worth shit in this job.

"No, I think maybe we didn't look in the right place."

"You wanna go nationwide?"

"Something like that," Olivia agrees.

"There was nothing that suggested he left state."

"Not in the past few years, he didn't. As far as we know. How likely would it be that he's not been active in years?" Olivia snaps her fingers, throwing an idea into the room, the only she can come up with in her overtired mind.

"Olivia-," Rollins says, although it does make sense.

"No, hear me out. You said you don't believe he changed his M.O., but that he might have escalated this time around?"

"It's a guess at best, Liv."

"Is it feasible?" Amanda leans back against her desk, pursing her lips.

"It's a possibility."

"So, let's say he's done it before, then for years nothing. That would have made him a ticking time bomb."

"It would explain the degree of violence used but it's unlikely that he's gone without for years, Olivia. It's... unusual."

"Is it impossible?"

"No," Amanda shakes her head.

"That's what I thought."

Olivia and Fin spend the day looking for Robert Smith, a guy who's happily flashing young women in Central Park and hasn't learn from his prior offenses. The case is fairly easy, almost amusingly so. They pick him up at his apartment, put him in a line up. Three women pick him and he's at Central Booking at the end of their shift.

Once back at the precinct Fin calls it a night, gathering his things from the locker room. As he finds her leaning against her desk in thought he already knows he doesn't need to offer her a lift home.

"Night Liv," he mutters, and he wishes he could ask what exactly is going through his co-worker's mind that keeps her so occupied. But he knows better than that, has learned that she doesn't share easily. "Go home."

"I will soon," she nods, and she wonders why it is that they both know that it's a lie. Fin doesn't call her up on it, and seconds later he's gone and she's got her desk to herself without anyone who's going to want to pry.

She picks up Betsy Turners case file to sit down and go over it again. She reads every single note taken, goes over the witness's statement, takes a look at the pictures. Upon seeing the photos taken at the crime scene, Olivia feels sick all over again. There's so much blood on and around Betsy's fragile body, her face beaten and bruised, all traces of innocence stolen. The ME's report reads like a fictitious, heinous novel that seems to drag on over hundreds of pages, reminding Olivia just how much the child had to endure. At the point Rostock finally killed her, death must have been a blessing. A gruesome end, yet an end. Release. Olivia's stomach lurches at the thought, wondering if Betsy had fought up until her last breath or if Rostock had broken her long before he killed her. Olivia winces. Nobody should ever have to wonder about such things. But for Olivia there is no escaping, no turning away, forgetting. She can't not wonder.

After two hours the words blur before Olivia's eyes and she rubs her temples and suppresses a yawn. She needs sleep. Can't focus without anymore. Olivia closes the file for the night, gets up and makes her way to the crib to crash for a few hours. Olivia is barely asleep when the tangles of a nightmare creep into her mind, pictures of young Betsy Turner flashing in her dreams. The latest picture taken by her parents, the girl offering a toothy grin for the camera, suddenly spotted red. Then there's blood everywhere. Too much blood. And cuts on her face, so many Olivia can barely count and she zooms out, sees the whole picture that changes to one of the crime-scene photos, Betsy's small, lifeless body laying naked in the street and those eyes are opened and such a beautiful shade of blue, yet there is a horror in them, horror and hollowness and...

Olivia startles awake, sucks in a shaky breath and runs a hand over her face. It takes her two seconds to realize where she is and that she's barely slept any. Olivia remains in her bunk, sighing quietly, knowing that Betsy's case is going to stay with her for awhile, that it's one of those crimes she can't forget only because another one needs her full attention. Those images can't be pushed to the back of Olivia's mind, nor can she wash off the coat of black despair sticking to her like tar.

The swishing wind and New York traffic sounds filter through the badly isolated window frames, shadows flashing across the ceiling of the crib as cars pass by outside. The sparse room is cold; the radiators could do with a bleeding. Despite the chill and the distraction of the noise, Olivia can't focus on any of these things, can't shake the hold the nightmare still has on her while awake. She wants her head to be empty, for every thought pulling her in to evaporate. She wants for her heart to not weigh a thousand pounds and feel like a rock in her chest, for every breath taken not to make her lung feel sore.

Olivia is sleepy, her body aching for rest, for a few hours of calm. She shifts. Turns. Tosses. It's an hour later that sleep claims her again until the quiet buzz of activity down in the squad room wakes her.

Stumbling to the locker room, Olivia retrieves a small bag of toiletries and grabs a set of fresh clothes. She takes a two-minute shower, brushes her teeth and changes into fresh clothes, stuffing the worn ones into the depths of her locker. She puts on some mascara, deciding that for today it'll have to do.

Entering the squad room she sees Fin at his desk, obviously doing his paperwork that has accumulated in the past couple of weeks. Munch is making coffee, Rollins is shouting across the room for him to make plenty because 'Benson looks like she needs some' which seems to amuse Nick who chuckles, not missing the ambiguity of the statement, turning it into a sexual innuendo. Olivia swears the man has the maturity of a hormonal teenager at times.

"Very funny, Amaro," Olivia says humorlessly. Of course it's closer to the truth than Olivia likes to admit, she's been going through a dry spell for months.

"Sorry, couldn't help it," he says, grinning.

"Can you ever?" Rollins drawls, looking at her partner.

"You started it, Mandy," Nick says as he slides down in his chair, folding his hands, stretching out his legs.

"Call me that again and I'll introduce you to my beloved Glock 19." Her eyes flash with the threat as she glares at Nick.

"Goddamn kindergarten," Fin mutters under his breath, eliciting a smile from Olivia. She sinks into her chair and wonders why she doesn't feel rested despite having gotten in six hours of sleep. "Didn't make it home again, did ya?"

"I prefer the atmosphere of the crib," she jokes, pulling up Betsy's file, the label 'B. Turner' catching Fin's attention.

"The Turner case?" He questions.

"Yeah. Something doesn't add up, I got the feeling we've overlooked something."

"Cragen know?" Olivia's partner inquires.

Cragen. Right. She knew there was something she's forgotten. Better said she is, unfortunately, reminded of something she tries her best to forget. No need to piss off the Captain. But she hasn't even done anything, yet, and she can't get reprimanded for something she didn't do.

"I'll run it by him if something pops up."

"Liv, I know this one's getting to you, but we've run a proper investigation," he says, his voice unusually soft. Olivia hates it, hates the empathy. This isn't about her not being able to let this case go, it hadn't even been her idea to look into it again. But of course she has to keep quiet about it all, because she's sharing a secret with the enemy, is protecting Langan and thus protecting his hated job. It must be a fucking joke and sadly it's not at all funny.

"I know. Just wanna double check, run it through N-DEx and ViCap again." And every other database available to the NYPD, because if she does this she might as well be thorough.

"Fine. Need help?"

"Thanks, but I'm good. You get your paperwork done." A false smile flits across her lips for only a second.

It takes Olivia hours to sift through the information, filtering anything useful from the impractical, inserting the data and running it through the resources available to her. She goes twenty years back, combing through every single hit ViCap and similar programs throw out, stumbling across too many crimes involving children. Olivia changes methods, tries to be more specific but is interrupted in her search when they catch a case. She is back at her desk by 8:30 PM, devoting to her task again, impatiently scanning the results. Nothing. For hours there is just nothing that comes close and yet she starts all over again.

And then there's something, catching Olivia's attention. She clicks on one of two results and her heart skips several beats. Cascade, Idaho.

Her eyes scan the screen and it's clear to her that this is it. The M.O. almost matches to a tee, eight year old girl, sexually assaulted and killed in 2002, found by Lake Cascade, disrobed, multiple cuts and stab wounds so distinctly similar in their location on the body that it can't be co-incidental. Especially not when this crime has been committed in Idaho.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Olivia whispers, eyes wide. And for just a second she feels like wanting to kiss Trevor Langan. She grabs the receiver of her phone, dialing the number of the department competent. She spends five minutes on the phone with an officer that apparently can't be bothered at this late hour and if she lived any closer she'd make it her business to wring his neck. However, he assures Olivia to have the Chief call her back in the morning.

She smashes the receiver back into its cradle, rubbing her eyelids. The case has been cold for years so it seems a few more hours don't seem to matter to them. But they do to her because every second wasted is a second lost. Seconds that will drag into minutes, hours. Days. Days Rostock is out there, in the streets, maybe picking his next victim. Priding himself on his former ones. Olivia blinks rapidly as if to distract herself. She can't think about this now, she can't go there and wallow in Betsy's misery. Her own misery. Instead she decides that there's nothing she can do right now, not until morning.

Olivia eventually gets on her way home, gets in a few hours of sleep. She finds herself back at the 1-6 at seven o'clock sharp, waiting for the phone to ring, the time difference not occuring to her until Amanda draws her attention to it after the brunette detective filled her in on the findings. Rollins is just as taken aback by the fact that they have not cared to dig deeper, that it had been Olivia who saw the possibility of Rostock having been inactive for years and his rage has escalated with Betsy Turner when she should have known, should have had a hunch.

Hours pass before Olivia hears back from McCall's Chief of the police department, referring Olivia to another department in Boise. Several calls follow and Olivia has the growing suspicion that she's had every single soul working for Boise police on the phone. Once again she is put off with the promise that someone's going to get back to her as soon as they located the case file from the filing room. Everything is moving too slow. For Olivia this is a break in a case lost, her chance to maybe pin a crime on Rostock when for them it's just one of many, a cold case unlikely to be solved after so many years.

A couple of hours later the call from Boise comes surprisingly fast and the person on the other end of the line seems to know what he's talking about. He's got the file in front of him, quickly runs Olivia through the most important facts, willing to make everything they have available to the NYPD and have one of the officers who's worked the case to get in touch. It isn't much but at this point it's more than Olivia had expected.

She goes to Cragen (and only because she has to), finding the bald man at his desk doing his paperwork and confesses that she is still pulling all strings she can in the Turner case. Although the Captain is pissed that she hasn't informed him sooner he lets her get away with it for the fact that she's actually found something. He doesn't offer many words to his detective but she has known Cragen long enough to understand even the unspoken things. "Get him." And because she's started her little search behind his back Olivia decides to be extra nice to him, nodding in response. You never know when you need another favor, another little break.

"Yes, Sir." She can't for the life of her remember when she last called him that. By the twitch of his lips Cragen tries so hard to control and not let it crack into a smile she realizes he can't, either.

There is a moment of unspoken things between them and in the past those have often squeezed in between conversation.

Olivia notices he looks worn and weary and old. Not old in a bad way but the past few months have left their toll on the captain, too. The years have made him harder, edgier. He barely smiles anymore and he's done with taking their bullshit and he doesn't mean any bad business but she misses the old him, the guy that had red vines on his desk and a quick joke on his lips. Some days Olivia wonders if he'd like to crawl inside a bottle again, if he's aching for the familiar taste of vodka because of the things that haunt him. She wonders about choices and life and consequences when she looks at his eyes and sees the hollowness in them.

"Good job, Olivia." He means it but is voice is monotone and indifferent, as if he doesn't have the nerve or the time to give her a pat on the back.

"So, what's going to happen now?" She asks, because this case is deep and theirs is over and done with, Rostock can no longer get convicted for what he did to Betsy Turner and Idaho, if they can tie the loose ends together, has jurisdiction. For them the bastard is untouchable.

"If we're lucky they're going to send someone here for you to work the case on with."

"And if we're not?"

"Then we're out." And it's final, and she isn't going to be upset and argue the fact because Cragen is tired and she is, too. Sometimes there's nothing they can do. Sometimes she hates everything about this job.

Olivia's dimly lit apartment smells of cheap microwave dinner. The taste is still in her mouth. The TV is on, re-runs of Sex And The City running. She isn't watching. She barely ever is because she likes the flickering, the static waves and the background noise much more than the actual program. She thinks TV is for normal people, people who come home and shake off the job, who can relax and indulge in the life of fictional characters. But there is no point because none of this shit on TV is real, Sex And The City isn't real. It may scratch the surface sometimes but dating has never been that easy or fun or ironic for Olivia. She is part of The City and while it's almost too easy to find a guy for one night, fucking isn't as easy or fun as they make it seem. Nor is the aftermath. Ever.

Or maybe that is just for her, maybe she is so utterly different from anybody else that she can't see how real it is. How women tend to talk about nothing but sex with their girlfriends – how women have a bunch of girlfriends. She's never had that kind of connection with anyone. She has a few friends -she can count them on one hand- but it's nothing close to the bond between Carrie Bradshaw and her carefree crowd. She doesn't discuss sex. She barely ever has sex because she's grown tired of one-night-stands, of the goddamn three dates rule, of men in general. Olivia has tried the dating game and it has nothing but bitten her in the ass.

She is nothing like these women and sometimes she thinks that's a little tragic because from what she's picked up in the years, without ever really having watched is, that even when shit happens they seem happier than she has ever been. They laugh together and they they are each others shoulders to cry on and that sounds reasonable enough.

She flips off the TV and suddenly it's quiet. Too quiet. But at least she's not reminded of who she's not, of the things she doesn't have.

Olivia's eyes are trained on her phone that's sitting on her coffee table. She isn't waiting for it to ring, she sure as hell hopes it isn't going to. She wants a shower and sleep and a blank mind and it's the latter that she can't have just because she wants to.

"_Will you let me know if you find something?"_

She had agreed that night, although she didn't have any intention to stick to her silent agreement. And yet Olivia can't get it out of her head, especially not when her phone sits there, staring at her, daring her to just make that call.

It is because of Langan that she kept looking, that she found something, that Boise's police department is going to send someone to New York, someone who has actually worked the case ten years ago. But Olivia doesn't feel grateful or like she owes him. Anything. Sleep comes a little harder to her these days and she always dozes off with Trevor Langan on her mind, her last thought is always that she should call him. That she doesn't want to call him.

"_What are you saying?" _

"_Too much." _

She should just ignore it, that little voice inside her head, but the more she tries not to listen the louder it speaks. She begins to wonder if this is her having a bad conscience for making a promise she never wanted to give in the first place. A promise she never meant to keep.

It's been a almost a week and she keeps staving off contacting him. She comes up with plausible reasons for not calling him. He defended Rostock. He set him free. He might just be the one defending him in court once more because who knows how far he was going to go, if he'd agree to go all the way to Idaho to somehow help the bastard get off again. As far as Olivia is concerned, she doesn't trust Trevor Langan any more than she would any other practical stranger.

And still she can't get it off her mind, can't put it aside.

In his mind what he has done is probably some great deed. To her it's just a bunch of bullshit she won't eat up just because as a human he now feels justified. But still there's that voice, that thing deep inside of her that shouldn't even exist and it makes her want to show she is still better than him, that a promise kept ultimately give her the upper hand again.

Olivia groans and eventually, after long minutes, she reaches for her phone. She doesn't even have his number, because why would she? It gives her the perfect reason to shrug and pretend she has at least tried. Only that wouldn't be quite right because somewhere between her papers, in some thick folder there is an invoice of his chancery for services employed (services she never had to pay for) and she knows for fact that attached to it is Trevor Langan's business card, clearly stating his cellphone number. Disappointment settles all over her, contaminating her small living room. Disappointment, because there is nothing she can tell herself that gives her an easy way out.

She goes through her paperwork, sitting on the floor, invoices from the last couple of years are scattered all around her because she can't find that damned thing. And that's perfect, because she really can't do much more than look for it. She has tried. And still she keeps searching and she can't make out if she is more pissed over not finding the goddamn piece of paper or over being unable to just stop and go to bed. She grabs another ring binder, flipping through it as well and eventually her eyes settle on the small business card attached to the invoice with a green paper clip.

_Well, shit._

For a second Olivia wishes she had thrown that thing out a long time ago.

She grasps for her phone that's sitting in the middle of the mess that is now her living room floor, dialing the number stated on Langan's business card. Maybe at this point it has changed but then the ring comes on the line and her eyelids drop. No such luck, of course.

It rings once, twice. A third time and then he picks up in his voice in her ear.

"Emmerson and Partners, Trevor Langan speaking." It's short and professional and of course it's a business mobile phone. Figures that the number hasn't changed since he gave her the card.

"It's Olivia," she starts, pushing a stack of papers back over the rings of the folder. "Benson." Clarification and keeping her distance. They aren't exactly on first name terms although he seems to forget that.

"Olivia," Langan sounds surprised. "Hi." Trevor hasn't really expected she would call.

"You wanted me to let you know if I'd find something."

"Did you?" There's the hint of interest in his voice and it doesn't take a master to pick up on it.

"I did," she states, clearly.

For a moment there's silence and she understands he's waiting for something. Something more, a clarification. An explanation.

"So, what have you got?"

"Like I'm going to tell you," Olivia chuckles. If he really thinks she's going to give him any more than she already has he's out of his mind.

"Come on, I told you what-," he wants to rub it in. Of course he needs to remind her that it was him who gave her the information that kept her going.

"It's an ongoing investigation, Langan," Olivia says like that's the end of it. And she shouldn't even have said this much, because now he knows they are after Rostock again. "Listen, for all I know you're his attorney and I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

"I used to be his attorney," Langan sets her straight.

"So what?" Olivia challenges. "If he seeks your representation again you're just going to refuse him? Your chancery is going to reject a client, a high profile case?" Her voice is taunting and she doesn't even try to hide the hiss it carries, the disrespect. The disbelief. And again she wants to scold herself for clearly stating that if they are lucky, if they can connect the dots, Rostock will need a defense attorney. She isn't so much upset with him, but everytime Olivia thinks of his job, thinks of what he is and does, it riles her up.

"I am not going to represent him."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to believe that?" She chuckles humorlessly.

"Olivia, if I had any intention to keep Rostock as a client, then why would I have told you what he said?"

"I don't know," she drawls, her voice calm this time. "Maybe because 'it didn't seem right not to'," she throws his words back at him. "But I can't and won't to give you information on this that you could easily use against me."

"Goddammit Olivia, one word and you could have my ass. I'd be done as a lawyer for good," he reminds her.

"Maybe. But at the same time it would cost me the case."

"You don't trust anyone, do you?" It's like a slap in the face because what the hell does he know about who she trusts or doesn't trust? Who she is?

"I don't trust _you_," she points out. Big difference. Although, and she hates to admit this, Langan's got a point. She doesn't trust easily. Especially not a practical stranger like he is to her.

"What else does it take for you to believe me I won't represent him anymore other than holding my career in your hands?"

"I don't know." Actually, there is nothing that would convince her. She's a cop with the NYPD, he's a defense lawyer. That alone speaks volumes about the amount of trust or belief she'd ever hold for him. "How about you tell me how you knew? You said Rostock never mentioned Idaho, yet you knew exactly where I had to look. How's that, Langan? Why don't you start trusting _me_ first?"

"I'm afraid I can't say." Figures. He wants her to tell him details when all he gave away was for her to look somewhere in the potato state.

"But you expect me to tell you about an ongoing investigation?" Truth is, they aren't investigating all that much at this point but Langan doesn't need to know about that.

"The less you know the better it is for you, Olivia," Trevor tries to explain.

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that neither of us has to take the chance to get into more trouble than we're both risking already." He talks of her and himself as if there is a 'them', as if there is something tying them together just because he gave her one tiny bit of information on a perp.

"Langan-," she sighs. Olivia is tired. Tired and wondering what could be so bad that he thinks it could get them in trouble. She had wanted to argue and try to pry a little more from him but she hates to beg anyone and Langan is on the bottom of the list of people she would willingly show weakness in front of. Olivia had run after him once and even then he had told her it's more of a guess than something he knows for fact. Only she isn't all that sure when he now clams up, reasoning that it's better for her. And him. So, instead she decides to give up, at least for now. At least for tonight. "-I think it's time for me to let you go. It's been a long day."

"Alright." Trevor understands that more than anything, especially knowing what hours she works, that sometimes she's at the precinct for days, sacrificing sleep for justice. "Thanks for calling."

Olivia considers just hanging up. To say he is welcome would be an overstatement. And a lie. But she reminds herself that it is courtesy of him that they now had something to go on, that all isn't yet lost. It doesn't feel quite right when she speaks up after several seconds. "It's fine."

Before Trevor can get another word in, Olivia hangs up, dropping the phone and closing her eyes. And she has a feeling that little voice inside her head still won't shut up.

The facilities of one of New York City's police departments are another dimension than Detective Georgia Brown is used to. Corridors are long and reverberating, double doors stretch out in every direction. For as spacious as this place is, it has far too little windows, the overhead lightening is crappy and the smell between these walls is stale. Granted, their precinct back in Boise isn't exactly a deluxe edition of a police department but Georgia almost misses the comparably small premises that is much less confusing and doesn't hold a dozen units at once, a place where her belonging isn't questioned and she has to wiggle her badge and account for just who the fuck she is in order to pass. She understands protocol. Doesn't mean she's got to like it.

Georgia walks up to the elevator, pushing the L-button and luckily enough the doors instantly spring open with a 'ding'.

"Third floor," she mumbles, slamming her finger onto the smooth metal presenting the right digit that would bring her to the desired destination. The elevator rumbles into motion and Georgia Brown can positively say that she hates lifts. Not because she feels claustrophobic in such a confined space or for the fact that these things can get stuck, power cut and all. It's much simpler, actually. Georgia can't stand the feeling of being in a state of weightlessness for that one second these goddamn things kick into motion, the ever surprising plummeting of her stomach, that moment of lost balance, lost ground beneath her feet when they don't leave the floor at all. She wonders why that is, why something so simple and mundane can be so very bothersome to her. Perhaps it's because it's something out of Georgia's control. Something she can't influence. Gravity, she can explain it, she can grasp the whole concept, can understand it. Subsequently she should be able to deal with it. Except Georgia Brown can't stand anything that she can't somehow manipulate, maneuver. Control.

Her stomach drops, turns, and for that moment, that one, abhorrent moment she feels goosebumps everywhere before the elevator finds its steady slide upwards. Georgia stands perfectly still, counting the seconds in her head that it takes for the elevator to rock to a halt, her fingers wrapping around the sharp edges of the folder she's carrying. A folder holding papers, photographs and reports documenting something so unimaginably cruel and horrific from a hot summer day a decade ago. For containing something so heavy, heavier than any human should be able to carry, the file is surprisingly light, almost airy. Not like a feather, but certainly not as heavy as the weight of a dead child. It's not a million pounds, not even strenuous. And Jesus, it should be. But the heaviness only exists in Brown's head, in her memories, in images unforgotten and words never spoken. In the promise to parents made who have lost their only child; lost it to something –no, to someone- so abysmally bad and sick that it makes your insides burn; and has yet to be kept. To find that sick bastard. To bring justice to a family that no longer is one, that had suffered and was eventually broken far beyond repair.

The doors crack open with another 'ding', notifying Georgia of her arrival. Third floor. Straight ahead of her there is another set of double doors. They swing open once, revealing an officer. A plate on the wall reads "16th Precinct. Special Victims Unit".

Georgia's grasp on the file in her hands tightens as she steps off the elevator, her arms perfectly straightened in front of her body, the front of her thighs rhythmically slapping against the folder with every step she takes towards the wooden doors. One hand lets go of the file eventually as she pushes through, now standing in a squad room that's lazily buzzing with activity. A young woman brushes past Georgia, a stack of paper in her hand, a blonde detective's on the phone, nodding in what Georgia surmises is understanding. A young, handsome kid – probably he's not a kid but he's just too much of a baby face for her taste- stares at a screen that clearly shows a picture of a mugshot -and what an ugly guy- as if it's the most confusing yet fascinating thing on the planet. Four desks are unoccupied, one of them accommodating two rather thick stacks of paperwork, another holds a deserted coffee mug. The third desk is neat, tidier than she's ever seen and the fourth one doesn't only seem to be unoccupied but not assigned to anybody at all. There are no personal belongings there, not even a pen, a file. Nothing. It sits completely empty opposite the cluttered up one Georgia's eyes found first.

Heads turn and focused glances are lifted upon her arrival and the handsome kid needs just a beat too long to open his mouth.

"Which one of you is Benson?" Georgia's tone is firm and demanding, checking the room for any sign of confirmation. The kid's eyes widen for a split second before he furrows his brow and takes a few steps in her direction.

"Detective Benson's not here right now I'm afraid," Nick explains as he approaches the red-haired, older woman. His steps are carefully calculated and he stops two feet in front of her, his voice calm as if he's getting ready to talk her down. Amaro assumes the woman is somewhere in her mid- to late fifties. He has not yet noticed the folder in her hand, or the breeze of authority the woman has about her upon stepping into the squad room. Her hair is bushy, too short to call it long but too long to really count as short.

The last thing Amaro needs or wants to deal with is an angry civilian that just barges in, making a scene before even introducing herself. Nick has the sickening feeling that she might be the mother, probably even grandmother of one of the schoolgirls they have questioned just a few hours ago. Olivia had pushed some of them quite relentlessly and he can only imagine that it is going to backfire on them. Then again Benson had pretty much pushed him out of the picture and had taken care of the questioning herself so maybe his ass is for now covered. She did ask for 'Detective Benson' specifically, after all.

"And who are you?" The same tone, not harsh but firm. An eyebrow raises in question. The kid. Of course she gets to deal with the kid. She isn't intrigued by him, not the least bit curious but she sees his mouth working, his lips twitching for a short moment. Already confused. What a wuss.

"Detective Nick Amaro," he says, trying to make the charming smile of his appear, his voice the ever soft rumble but the tone and the way the lady looks at him have him more off-balance than he likes to admit. He has never seen this woman in his life, standing there in her pine needle green colored slacks, taking a stance as if she's superior to him, looking down on him although he's taller than her, looking down as if he's unworthy of her precious time. Her green eyes don't hold a glare or anything that suggests she's angry, yet Nick has a feeling she' might crush him with her bare hands if she doesn't like his answer. Taking another step towards her, -he realizes from her size that she could easily crush him if she wanted to, given he'd hold still of course- he smiles as if it would disarm her. "Is there anything I can do to help you, Mrs...?"

The kid's tone is sweet. Too sweet and he should work on not laying it on too thick when he's using it with civilians because right now she feels ridiculed. She figured he would at least have mad skills if he was able to survive in a unit like this but making conversation definitely isn't one of them. The kid looks at her with expecting eyes, as if he's waiting and she watches the way he uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other.

"It's Detective Brown." The kid almost recoils and his eyes widen with realization and she wants to slap her hand on his shoulder and tell him to get a grip on himself and not piss his pants. But then it's too amusing to watch as he's quickly fumbling for something to say. At least she's wiped the terrible grin off his face. She likes him much better this way.

"De- detective Brown. Of course," he says, clearing his throat.

The blonde's head bobs up in interest, her blue eyes dawning with curiosity and faster than Georgia can blink an eye she mumbles something into the receiver and slams it into the cradle, eagerly jumping up from her chair and walking towards her. "Detective Brown, Boise, right?" Rollins inquires with big fat smile on her face as if she's a little girl at Christmas and Georgia is the biggest wrapped box under the tree. "It's so good to have you here to fill us in on the case. Please, sit down," Rollins gestures at her desk, selflessly offering it to the woman that could be twice her age. "We can take a look at the files right away, if that's okay with you." Georgia's eyes widen and she has to revoke. Blondie isn't like a kid on Christmas morning, she's a hyena hungry for carrion. Typical. If she had taken anyone for the kissass of the unit it would have been the kid.

"Are you Benson?" Georgia challenges and for a slight second there's confusion washing in those blue eyes.

"No. I'm Det-" Amanda's introduction is cut short as Georgia, as if to make a point, interrupts.

"Then I don't think we'll take a look at anything, Detective...?" Amanda swallows nothing but air, her disappointment sucking the thrill of anticipation right out of her.

"Rollins. Amanda Rollins," she says stupidly, glancing at Amaro who shrugs his shoulder as if to tell Amanda he doesn't know what the deal is with her, either.

"So, Detective Rollins," Brown's voice drips with something that can easily be mistaken for sarcasm but is in fact utter indifference. Rollins looks at her, alert, almost giddy that the woman was at least going to engage in polite conversation with her. Or so she thought. "Is there by any chance a place where I can study my file-," she holds it up, waving it in front of Rollins, seeing the suddenly hardened facial expression. "-privately?"

Amanda's teeth scrape over the inside of her bottom lip. She stems both hands against her hips, feeling challenged and mocked. "Why, of course, Detective Brown," she bites out. "Follow me." Rollins trots off, her mouth working furiously as she grinds her teeth in anger. Who does this woman think she is, coming in here acting as if she has a right to treat people like this? Acting as if she's got a say or is so much better than them? She hears Brown's footsteps follow her upstairs where she shows her to a small, empty room save a table and three chairs. "I hope this'll do."

"Will do just fine," Brown nods, entering the room and easily shrugging out of her jacket once she's chucked the file onto the table with precise aim. As Rollins keeps standing in the doorway, observing Brown's every move the older woman turns around, smile plastered on her face. "Thank you Detective." And only after a brief pause does she add, "That would be all."

Amanda does her best not to glare at Georgia and not to give her a piece of her mind. Her hands are trembling with anger as she takes a step back and before she can even wrap her hand around the doorknob to close it behind her it's pushed shut in her face. The blonde looks dumbfounded, huffing with disbelief. The woman better gets lost as quickly as she has appeared, otherwise Amanda can't guarantee that within two day's time she isn't going to wring her neck.

_What a bitch. _

"Burger sans cheese, home fries and extra ketchup," Olivia drops a doggie bag on Rollins desk, a napkin slipping off the carton holding the food that has probably run cold by now. Amanda seems unusually tense, looking up at Olivia with a stern expression on her otherwise friendly face.

"They were out of tomato soup so I brought you a club sandwich," she rattled down quickly, now facing Amaro who, surprisingly, didn't seem all too happy, either. Olivia groans, having a feeling they wouldn't get to eat. "Another case?" She groans.

"Well, I wouldn't say _another_ case," Amanda starts, leaning back in her chair and bending the silver metal clip of her ball pen. "Rather-," the metal bends out of shape as the blonde's thumb keeps pushing bit by bit, deliberately. "An old case."

"Huh?" Olivia looks puzzled, fishing Nick's sandwich out of the bag that still held her and his food.

"A cold case," Amaro clarifies. "Ten years cold."

"Speaking of cold-," Rollins slams her pen onto the table top, marring the surface of her desk for eternity. Olivia startles and jumps, eyes wide. Amanda bends over, half of her torso hovering above the desktop as she inspects the damage done, a small scraper, barely visible. "Do you think it's hot in hell?"

"Okay, how about you stop talking crazy and start speaking a language I can actually understand?"

"Oh, you will understand soon enough, Olivia," Nick assures.

"Understand what?" Olivia hates games. She's one for straight, easy answers, not one for getting stupid clues thrown at her. She is a detective – that doesn't mean she's willing to guess or try to go by instinct if she doesn't necessarily has to. She can't see the fun part in this, and as it looks it's not exactly funny, either. Her fellow detectives are pissed off. The big question is why that would be.

"The backstop from Boise's here," Rollins finally gives away and Olivia's positively surprised.

"Already? That was quick, didn't bank on her to be here before tomorrow."

Completely ignoring what Olivia has to say Nick unwraps his sandwich. "Sweet lady."

"Sweet as they come," Rollins chimes in, and Olivia is looking all the more confused.

"What?" She demands, not understanding what could possibly be so bad.

"Nothing. Just...watch her," Nick warns with a shrug.

"She's a feisty one," Amanda adds. "World War Two feisty," she chuckles humorlessly. "Think she served? Private Georgia Brown," the blonde drawls making a scary face and for the first time since Olivia's return from the food run she sees Amaro's lips crack into a real smile.

"Come on, she can't be that bad," Olivia says, getting the raised eyebrow from both other detectives. "Can she?"

"Worse."

Detective Georgia Brown is, compared to Olivia, a corpulent woman, a good head shorter with wild, red hair that reminds the younger detective of fall foliage. The color is deep and for her age -she is definitely too young to have served in WWII but at least ten years Olivia's senior, that is surprising because upon the first glance Olivia can't see a single gray hair. Even more surprisingly Brown's hair color looks natural. Her face is tanned, spotted with freckles all over, her eyes a shade of green like she's only ever seen in cats eyes. Georgia's face is lined with deep wrinkles, especially around her mouth and the the corners of her eyes. She doesn't wear any make-up and she certainly isn't the classic beauty but she has an aura about herself that makes her incredibly interesting. Brown doesn't look as weary as most detectives Olivia's seen, and she has seen plenty. She doesn't look as beaten down as Olivia herself, as challenged and tired. No, Georgia Brown exudes contentment despite the hardness of her face, the lines edged into it.

"Detective Brown," Olivia says with a soft, weary smile. Her stomach grumbles with the hunger for something solid. Upon learning the detective from Boise, Idaho is here, Olivia's food has remained untouched like it does so often.

Georgia stands up, a smile forming on the older woman's face. She instantly knows that the brown-haired, exotic looking woman is Detective Olivia Benson. Olive complexion, reflecting her first name, shoulder-lenght, wavy hair that's probably supported by a short twist with a curling iron to give it more support, dark-brown almond eyes. She carries herself with pride and a heaviness that only a job like hers can burden you with. "Georgia," the woman offers with a firm handshake. Olivia's hand is soft and smooth, her nails decently manicured other than Georgia's chapped ones.

Olivia nods, her glance settling on the open file on the table for a second. "Olivia." It's a short yet warmer introduction than Olivia has imagined, especially after Rollins and Amaro have acted like Brown is the devil. There is something, and Olivia can't quite put her finger on what it is, that they might share. Once more the open, brown folder catches Olivia's attention and in within the fraction of a moment she realizes just what it is. A bond. A similarity. And it has nothing to do with determination or dedication or sharing the same job. It's right there, sitting on the table. It's a case. It's two girls. Something they've respectively seen, Olivia a few months ago, Georgia a decade ago. Olivia has a feeling as people they couldn't be more different from each other. But they are both part of the same whole, part of an assignment. "I'm pleased to meet you. I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to meet Captain Cragen, yet but he's in a meeting with Internal Affairs," Olivia fills the woman in. Brown's facial expression instantly changes, showing an obvious dislike for what Olivia just said.

"They're on your ass, too, I see." The statement makes Olivia chuckle. Brown seems to think as much of IAB as she herself does.

"In a department like SVU? Constantly. They have a big hard-on for us."

"Figures," Georgia says, left completely unimpressed.

"They've probably been over my partner's and my jacket more often than our personnel file sat on the Captains' desk and believe me, it sat there quite often." Olivia rolls her eyes and images of Tucker flash in her mind, his ice-chips of eyes burnt in her memory. Just thinking of the jerk, with all due respect (then again she can't say she has any for the bastard), makes Olivia's blood boil. She sat in the hot seat with IAB one too many times, accused, ridiculed, questioned.

"So which one of the two is your partner? The kid or the pretty face?" God knows, she wouldn't wish either of them on Benson.

Olivia tenses at the question, realizing her mistake quickly and it catches up to her brutally like a good, old kick in the stomach. _Elliot_, she wants to say. Instead she blinks rapidly for a few times, the silence thick and consuming between the two women.

_Ex-partner. Ex. Ex. Ex. _

Olivia swallows audibly and Georgia can sense that something is not quite right, sees the confusion, then the clarity that follows.

_What's so hard to remember about ex-partner? _

"I erm...," Olivia tries, hoping that the hesitant smile she sports makes her look less pathetic than she feels. "None of them. Actually, I don't have a partner." _Anymore._

Georgia feels there's more to the story, that there must have been a partner at some point. That said partner was no longer there and by Olivia's befuddled reaction to the question, the retarded attempt of an answer has the older woman guessing that something must have happened, something Olivia's obviously struggling with. It is one way to explain the empty desk Georgia has spotted down in the bullpen.

"We're actually rotating, working hand in hand, partnering up with whoever is available," Olivia adds quickly, the words rushed. And she knows. She knows she's trying to explain something that shouldn't need explaining, that she's justifying not having a partner because it's not normal, at least not for her. Normal is having Elliot by her side, him having her back, her having his.

Olivia has gotten used to working with Rollins and Amaro. What she doesn't get used to, simply _can't_ get used to, is working without Elliot. He has been her partner for so long, her friend, that it's problematic for her to identify without him. Elliot has been her crutch and without it she limps, stumbles and falls. Constantly.

He's not out of her life, she hasn't lost him completely. He isn't dead and he hasn't forgotten about her -once he remembered she existed and finally gave her a call after sending in his papers, at least- but on that daily basis, in the way she needs him most, he is just not there.

_Gone. _

The emptiness Olivia feels since he left SVU crushes her again and again. Just when Olivia thinks it's been a decent day (decent is far from good in her book) she can't help but reminisce when she's last felt that way. And time and time again it hits her. That decent days always used to involve Elliot. That he was the one thing making it so. And eventually she's sucked right back into the memories, of what it used to be like with him, around him, next to him. He's in her veins, under her skin. Part of her.

_Part-ner. _

On some level Olivia knows she's always going to miss him. They're so interwoven that Olivia can't tell where she ends and Elliot begins.

Olivia's been foolish to think that reality would stop for them, that Elliot would always be here. That they are bigger than life itself with all the hurdles and finitude it eventually throws at you.

They are not immortal. Never were supposed to be. And maybe nothing is except what she feels for him. Except that love and loyalty she has for Elliot Stabler. Just like everything else they are ephemeral and they have eventually lost their partnership to time and circumstances. So to all that is left, she holds onto like a lifeboat.

They still have each other. There's still a bond that has been formed within twelve years, ties that won't be torn just because his desk is no longer his desk or his purpose as a cop is no longer to have her back. He's still got it in the only way it matters. To her.

"Rotating partner's good," Georgia interjects after a breath of desperation Olivia lets go from her lungs. The brief pause in conversation had a painful feel to it and so the silence had to be broken.

To Olivia rotating partners is unfamiliar. In fact it downright sucks. It's not supposed to be like this, for her to have to work with whoever Cragen says, constantly switching it up. She is too aware of her captain's motives, his unbreakable will to never fall into that trap of partner's growing too close, sacrificing themselves for their other half, again. And maybe that's Olivia's fault because she has proven her dependency on Elliot once he's left. Her tough exterior has cracked and crumbled and only dysfunction had been left until she eventually came to terms with the fact.

As if nothing was wrong before.

As if they mirrored a normal image of what a partnership should be.

Fuck, she's still good at the game of pretend.

"I guess," Olivia exhales, simply. "So, let's go over this, huh? I'll just get everything. Coffee? I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night." Once again reality is a cold shower that hits, cleanses her of all pretense. They have a case to focus on, a baby rapist and murderer wandering the streets. It should be much more important but somewhere in Olivia's head the two balance each other.

Case. Elliot. Case. Elliot. Case.

_Feelings for Elliot._

Man, she's really fucked.

_Fucked up._

"Let's do this," Georgia agrees, her voice laced with conviction. It's something so simple reminding Olivia that the case has the precedence for the following hours, days, possibly weeks. And there's nothing like a gut wrenching crime to take her mind off of Elliot, to let him go enough to not feel the ache in her chest twenty-four-seven. Olivia will get lost in Betsy Turner and Mary Davids, will drink from the poisonous essence of what happened to the two children and once again pretend that it's enough to forget it should be him and her and Brown, pretend -pretending is a beautiful thing- that she can do this alone, that there won't be a downfall, that she doesn't sacrifice another piece of what's left of her soul and sanity. She'll feign she doesn't need catching, doesn't need him to catch her. That she doesn't need saving at the end of the day. That she doesn't need him to go through the exact same motions and feelings and that pitch black darkness that she will wade through and get stuck in. She doesn't need him to be her emotional clone, can do without his rage egging her on, his intensity that will hit and effect everyone around him. She does not need him to carry her through as if with a little luck the shit's not gonna touch her.

Pretending really is a sweet thing.

Olivia nods and a second later she's out of the room, on her way to her desk to get the Turner case file and two mugs of stale coffee. Upon her return Georgia has already taken a seat and is scanning the pages of her own file. Olivia puts the mugs down, drops the Turner file on the table and heavily sinks into the chair.


End file.
